Second Chances

Harry usually didn't like to be ordered to do anything – in his mind, he'd already spent a lifetime taking orders and doing what everyone else wanted, so when he was sitting in Shacklebolt's office, fidgeting on the worn velvet chair and lacing and unlacing his fingers, he was already on edge.

What would it be this time? Was it his turn to be den mother to new recruits? Did he get to revise the Auror Training Manual – again? Or did he have to police yet another "Equal Rights for Elves" rally?

That last wouldn't be so bad, really - the refreshment tables at such rallies were usually filled with some pretty good stuff, like lemon bars, mushroom tartlets, the odd chocolate chip cauldron cake …

He realised his mind was wandering and tried to focus on the big black man sitting across from him, flipping parchment like he was sorting and collating it. Maybe he was – budget cutbacks and all.

Having shuffled his untidy pile into a larger, more untidy pile, Kingsley looked over it at Harry. "Do you know why you're here, Harry?"

Harry shifted. "If it's about switching the office coffee to decaf, sir, all I can say is that you've never had to work with Adams when he's on a caffeine high – it's like being partnered with a Cornish pixie on acid."

Kingsley bit his lip so as to not laugh. "Have you partnered with many pixies in such a state?"

Harry shrugged. "Before you became Minister, the admissions selection process was pretty loose."

"Indeed," agreed Kingsley, who had heard wilder stories. "But no, that is not the reason, though I endured quite a bit of heat over that little switcheroo of yours. No, I've been reviewing your personnel file and …"

Oh, here it came. Harry wasn't sure what was actually IN his personnel file, but assumed it couldn't be anything good. Since joining the Aurors, he hadn't exactly been a role model – the Hero-Savior-Saint thing had gotten pretty old pretty fast, and Harry had sometimes abused his power a bit, as it were. Nothing Voldemortian, no, but he'd been an asshole. Many times, in fact, and that was part of the reason that he and Ginny were, as she put it, "on a break."

Harry personally had re-termed it the "Harry, you piss me off and I don't see a future with us, but since Mum does, let's call this a break and I'll go fuck Dean Thomas, okay?" And the hell of it was, he didn't really care.

"… and I see that you haven't taken a vacation in four years. In fact, you barely have more than two days strung together, and you're way overdue. I think a break would be good for you."

"And the department, you mean."

Kingsley sighed. "Harry, the great coffee switch was only a symptom of a deeper problem, and we both know it."

Harry wasn't sure what he was supposed to know – Hermione hadn't briefed him on that subject lately. As the Deputy Minister of Magic, she saw fit to shoot him priority information about his job, reputation and personal life a couple of times a week, knowing full well that he didn't pay attention to any of that crap. But lately, she'd been slacking off, but then again, it was an election year, so Harry let it go.

"You really think so, sir? " Harry was hedging now, 'cause he had no idea what Kingsley was getting at, and suspected the other man didn't either, and they were playing the same game. Harry had had enough sessions with the departmental psychwitch to know when he was walking into a trap. He didn't feel like playing today, though, so he nodded. "I guess you're right. So am I to assume I'm being forcibly sent on vacation?"

"I would never try to force you, Harry." Kingsley was far too calm, given the game. "But you do have a lot of time accumulated, so I see no reason why a young, healthy …"

"Virile," added Harry. He just liked the word.

"… Virile man like yourself shouldn't go and sow his wild oats, yes?"

Harry almost said that he'd figured he'd sown most of agricultural England inside Ginny Weasley already, but stopped himself at the last minute. He wasn't sure if that crossed the line of 'shop talk' or not. "Well, if you think it's the right thing to do, sir, I'll take the time. How much do I have?"

"Twenty-seven months," answered Kingsley dryly. "But I think a month, six weeks, might be good for a start."

"Really? Wow. I am a dedicated employee." Harry nodded. "But fine, I'll clear up my files and go in a few days."

"How about tomorrow? No time like the present, I always say."

Harry looked at his boss suspiciously, but Kingsley's broad face was expressionless.

"What about my files? My open cases?"

"I think a decaffeinated Adams can handle them. Truly Harry, go – go someplace exotic, someplace remote, some place where trouble doesn't come knocking every ten minutes. Someplace you can relax."

"That does sound rather nice – if you're sure you can handle things around here without me." He watched his boss' face turn a lovely shade of eggplant, then got up and shook his hand warmly. "I'll send you a postcard from wherever I wind up, yes?"

"That would be lovely," Kingsley managed.

"Okay – Cheerio and all that rot." Harry stood and stretched, then absently picked a wedge before slouching out the door. He heard the clink of glass against glass in his boss' office, looked at the clock and thought that Kingsley was starting a little early today – probably because he was going to miss Harry tons and tons.

Cheered, he went back to his office, which he shared with another Auror, the aforementioned Adams. "I'm going on vacation, Sam," he told him. He enjoyed the irony of the name, as Adams was a rabid teetotaler, hence his deep need for coffee. "Apparently, I have a lot of time, and Shacklebolt is afraid I need a break from the rigors of work."

Adams looked up in exasperation. "The most rigorous work you've done lately is lip-ups against your coffee cup after Ginny told you your kisses had gotten limp and mushy."

"I know, right? Luckily that's the only thing that got limp – besides, I'd just had too many fireballs from the front desk candy jar and my lips got temporarily numb. It was easily remedied. Oh, and Kingsley says you get all my open files. Try not to spill Jamaican Rasta Roast on 'em will you?"

"All of them?" Sam Adams looked aghast. "You have files on your desk from eight months ago, plus a whole write up on a fictional flying flounder yet to file! Why me?"

"Luck – pure, unadulterated luck, is all. And the flounder is not fictional. I saw him with my own eyes." Harry scratched in places only men felt comfortable touching in public. "Ask Simons, he was there."

"Harry, Simons is a known toadwort addict; you can't take his word on anything."

"He wasn't toading at the time; he didn't lick the toad till we drove away, and then he let it go back into the wild. He has abandonment issues, so that was a big step for him."

Adams sighed, the same sigh as Kingsley had emitted, and for that matter, the same sigh he got from Hermione, Ginny and even Ron. It was the "Harry, please get a CAT-scan" sigh, and he was tired of it. Maybe a vacation really would do him good.

After a few more rounds of verbal jousting with his hapless cubicle mate, Harry left and started walking home; Apparating still made him want to toss, and the tube was downright dangerous. Besides, he'd been banned for six months from going on the O-line after innocently asking a woman carrying batteries if she thought the 'O' stood for orgasm. He'd felt the bumps in the track, seen the batteries and come to a logical conclusion, or so he thought. She thought differently, and bada-boom, he was banned. Walking was healthier, anyway.

As luck would have it, he passed Wanderlust Wizarding Tours on his way home, and on impulse, stopped in, plopping himself down in front of a harried-looking lady and smiling winsomely. "Hi, my boss wants to get rid of me for six weeks so I can sow my wild wheat, rye, oats, whatever – what would you suggest?"

She looked at him tiredly. "How about a Muggle telly and a subscription to an adult channel?"

"Got that already," Harry nodded. "I don't know if my winkie could handle six weeks of that kind of abuse though. Plan B?"

She shook her head and pulled out some pamphlets, waving her wand – which, unaccountably had a troll doll taped to it – to flip through them. "Well, dear, if its wild oats that are the issue, we could send you to Amsterdam. They do have a legal Red Light district there, and the "workers" are regulated by the government, so it's all on the up and up. If you have the money, they have the time, as they say."

"Hmm." Harry was pondering, then brightened. "And is it true that certain, erm, substances are also legal there?"

She nodded. "Yes, if that's your thing."

Harry grinned; he had a distinct fondness for a 'certain substance' and this seemed like an opportunity too good to pass up.

"Great! Could you book me a nice room and arrange for a portkey?" He dug in his pocket and found a wrinkled, but unused, check. He swiftly wrote out a sum for payment, and handed it over to the woman, watching the customary "Good Lord, you're Harry Potter!" expression cross her face. To her credit, she didn't make a big deal out of it.

She made the arrangements swiftly – a sweet check tended to spur people on, Harry had found – and soon he was on his way with a guidebook, a receipt for a room and bath at a nice hotel, and the promise of a portkey at eight am the next morning. At home, he set about packing, and realized he had nothing to wear that qualified as sexy. Not that he thought the sex workers cared, but maybe it would be nice to not horrify them; he was pretty sure his underwear would be considered a travesty in any country. Maybe he should just shop in Holland.

Once packed, he broke out the last of his stash of 'substance.'

After the war, after the furor had died down and things started to be rebuilt, he had hunted down the Dursleys.

Well … all right, just Dudley. He'd been oddly touched by his cousin's last minute concern for him the night of his birthday, and had gone back to tell him so. Strangely enough, after a few moments of awkwardness, they'd actually gotten on, and Dudley had introduced him to marijuana, weed, grass, whatever you wanted to call it. His cousin had confided that weed was the only reason he'd been able to tolerate Vernon and Petunia once he'd turned fourteen; Harry could sympathize.

Dudley had seen him off with a baggie of green stuff and since then, Harry had managed to keep himself supplied – he figured it was better than booze and less expensive than designer potions, geared for the old-money set who were now out on their collective butts, armed with only whatever they'd been able to hide before the Ministry seized their assets. The potions were cheap, with substandard ingredients badly mixed and Harry had seen them cause more trouble than they were worth.

Besides, Harry was a big advocate of "going green" and figured he was doing his part, organically speaking, plus supporting local entrepreneurs. Think globally, act locally, right?

He was feeling rather mellow when he turned in around two a.m. and the ringing of his bell at exactly eight a.m. was not exactly greeted with cheers and whistles, but he tipped the delivery guy anyway and shut the door, scratching and yawning.

The portkey was good for 90 minutes, so Harry showered, shaved – it was a special occasion, after all – sent Ginny an owl saying he was on vacation and glad she wasn't there, and dressed. He grabbed his suitcase, closed his hand around the portkey, and a short, turbulent time later, he was in Amsterdam – in the Prins Hendrikkade, to be exact, where his hotel was located.

He looked around in interest; no windmills and no one seemed to be wearing wooden clogs. There weren't even any dykes in sight. He thought of the inevitable rejoinder Ron would make to that observation, and had to smile as he lugged his suitcase into the hotel lobby, showing the bored desk clerk his receipt.

"You're booked for a 6 week stay, in Room 483; the room is equipped with an honor bar, whirlpool, king bed, river view and a complimentary selection of condoms and lubricants for your sexual pleasure. If you wish to find your own "entertainment," please feel free to do so, but if you are shy or sexually inadequate, the hotel does keep a selection of girls and boys on hand for your …"

Harry had been half-listening, but now snapped to attention. "Sexually inadequate? What's that supposed to mean?" He looked down at his crotch reflexively – Harry J. appeared to be pouting, and Harry scowled in sympathy.

"Sir, some people just can't get it up." The clerk could have been reciting Keats. "Again, if that is your situation, we do have specialists that can aid you in your …"

"I can get it up just fine, thank you. Is that all?"

"For now." The clerk handed him his key. "We do try and present a distinctly Muggle façade, so if you'd keep the Apparating, spell casting, charming, hexing, cursing or Unforgivables to a minimum, Management would appreciate it."

Harry was still smarting over the very idea that he could be sexually inadequate. "I'm sure Management would." He dragged his suitcase over to the elevators and waited alongside what looked to be a professional party person, complete with way too much makeup and conversely, far too little clothing – not that Harry was complaining. He did love sightseeing.

"Hallo," said Harry, trying to be friendly. "Going to a party?"

The lady looked him up and down. "Nr, maar ik kon een partij in uw broek beginnen, baby," she purred. Harry wasn't sure what that meant, and out of curiosity promptly whipped out his wand to cast a translation spell and caught the clerk frantically waving at him. Right. He casually scratched his neck with his wand and stuck it back into his pocket.

"Uhm, well, probably not," he replied, realizing he had no idea what she was saying, but deciding it was probably dirty. "But thank you."

She shrugged. "Uw knap verlies."

"I know, right? And, erm, Happy Hemelvaartsdag."

She looked at him oddly, since it was October, but then spotted a friend and moved over to speak with her, turning to point at Harry and roll her eyes. That type of reaction, at least, Harry was used to.

He got to his room without further incident, and looked around; it was nice enough, he thought, and decided to take a nap, have lunch when he woke, and then take a little stroll through De Wallen and check out the services for sale, as it were. One must always do some shopping on holiday, right?

And then, maybe he'd have coffee. Yes, "coffee," in one of those charming little shops.

Harry arose at half four, after a genuinely lovely nap. He freshened up, changed his shirt, realized his underwear was still disreputable, and solved the issue neatly by going commando – with any luck, he wouldn't be wearing pants soon anyway.

He wandered the streets idly until he came to the entrance of Amsterdam's famous red-light district. The day was cloudy and darker than it should have been, so the line of red lights glowed eerily in the murk.

He started his stroll on the Monnikenstraat, walking slowly and surveying the wares; it was odd to see that the older whores were just as proud of their bodies as the younger ones, given the way they dressed and posed – even when the merchandise was clearly marked down due to wear and tear.

A new face was always welcome in the district, it seemed, and Harry was fascinated by the variety of the girls offering themselves for sale. Some of them obviously specialized, as evidenced by their displays of props, and Harry saw a few items that looked downright dangerous … but he supposed the most successful whores were multitalented, as it were.

The Morningstar and leather vambraces in one window disturbed him a bit, though he did like the thigh-high studded boots. He tried, albeit briefly, to imagine Ginny in them, and startled both himself and the girl's prospective clientele with the slightly hysterical peal of laughter that escaped him.

But all in all, it was a pleasant walk, and he enjoyed the scenery, human and otherwise.

After an hour or so of aimless wandering, he found a small coffee shop that sold both excellent, thick coffee – on purpose, and not because it had been left too long on the burner – as well as other herbal necessities, and settled in for an hour or three, making conversation with a few pretty girls. Harry had found that a little weed always helped things along for him socially, and now was no exception.

Unlike Hermione, Ginny, Fleur, Gabrielle, and Merlin knew who else, who all found him obnoxious when he was high, the female residents of Amsterdam seemed to take him in stride. Either they were extremely tolerant people, or, as Harry suspected, they all partook in various calming herbs as well, for they listened to his stories, applauded his impressions and cheered him on in karaoke. He thought his rendition of "Rocket Man" was particularly impressive, and no one told him any differently.

Leaving the coffee lounge, he was very, very relaxed and thought he just might like to stay around here for a good long while. And since he was now in a frame of mind to, perhaps, engage in some interpersonal communication, he thought he might take a stroll back through the District and see if anyone caught his eye. Or if he caught anyone's eye.

For someone who made his living tracking, pursuing and capturing bad, bad people, Harry had a rather terrible sense of direction and couldn't tell where he'd already been, but wasn't worried. He had time.

Lots of it; twenty-seven months, in fact, if Ministry bookkeeping was to be believed.

So he made his way down the Molensteeg, Gordinjninsteeg and Golderbergersteeg before finally coming to a stop in front of a window on the Enge Kirkesteeg. There, lounging on a battered black velvet daybed, was perhaps the most beautiful girl – or boy - that Harry had ever seen.

She – Harry decided it had to be a she, 'cause no He was that delicate – looked bored. Bored and perhaps a bit pouty as she absently played with a gold lip-ring, the small pink tongue licking and worrying the gleaming metal.

She was fair-skinned and emphasized the point with heavy black eyeliner, but the lips, the lips Harry couldn't stop staring at, were natural. They were heavily glossed, but the color was the unmistakably peachy-pink of real skin.

She looked up as Harry walked up to the window, and gave him a lazy smile, then leaned to open a small window which served for communication. "Goede Avond," she purred.

"Uhm, hello." Harry took a deep breath. "Spreekt u het Engels?"

She tilted her head. "Certainly." The voice was soft, deep, vaguely husky. "Would you rather conduct our business in English, then?"

"Yes, please," said Harry, relieved. "I'm afraid I might ask you for a stuffed Cornish Game Hen or the latest score for Manchester United if I tried to speak Dutch."

The smile became a tad more genuine. "I would have to tell you, then, that I am a miserable cook, and have not followed footie in years and years." She reached back then and pulled the black silk tie out of her hair, letting loose a silky fall of blonde over her shoulder, the movement obviously deliberately choreographed to be seductive.

It didn't lessen the impact one little bit.

Harry swallowed and tried to look cool. "So …"

"So." The girl smiled at him. "What's your pleasure?"

Harry returned the smile. "I have a long list of pleasures." This was true, and he had the scroll with same tucked into his back pocket.

She stretched, long legs appearing even longer as the black chemise she was wearing hiked up, almost to the point of showing the goods – almost. Harry swallowed again as her smile widened, noting his reaction. "Well, darling, if you're interested, I have the time in the world as they say. Show me your list and I'm sure I can make you a happy, happy boy tonight."

"I'm sure you could … can, I mean." He rubbed the back of his neck and felt the need to make casual conversation – Merlin knew why, 'cause he was absolute rubbish at it.

"So, uhm, come here often?"

A pale brow shot up, and she laughed disbelievingly. "What do you think? No, I'm a debutante, trying to piss Mummy and Daddy off by being a whore. That will show them, goddammit."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes. I'm here every night, all night. Are you interested or just looking for a chat-up? Because charming as you are, idle chit-chat isn't a luxury I can afford, off the clock. So…?"

Harry might not be at the top of his game, Auror-wise these days, but when something tickled at the edges of his mind, he listened. His actions might be a tad unorthodox but his instincts were rarely wrong. And somehow, something here felt odd, off.

He studied her for a long moment, until she shifted under his gaze and looked down, then back up through heavy black lashes. "All right, lover, are we doing this tonight, or not?"

Harry shook himself mentally and opened his mouth to say "Yes," but what came out was "No, sorry."

The girl looked as shocked as he felt, and for a moment, Harry fancied he saw a brief shadow, a fleeting expression of disappointment – maybe anger – cross that pretty face, but when he blinked and refocused, all that was there was a bored curl of the lip.

"Suit yourself – your loss. Now, if you'd move along, I have other business to conduct. Goodnight."

It was a dismissal, and pleasantly high though he was, it still stung, and he moved several steps back, standing there for a long moment until he turned and walked away.

Okay, so maybe the original six weeks was a far better plan, after all.

"Harry, honestly – you told her no, she asked you to move on so she could hook someone else for the night – pardon the expression – and now you're all upset? Maybe you should spend your vacation on a couch, with a good therapist about three feet away."

"Four feet."

"Fine, four – I forgot about your personal space issues. And besides, there are roughly 3,000 working prostitutes in Amsterdam, so you have 2,999 left to choose from."

Hermione was annoyingly logical for this time of night. Harry had been brooding for several hours now, and was also stone cold sober. The latter seemed to add insult to injury.

"But why didn't she try to convince me? I look good, don't I?" Harry surveyed himself in the mirror.

"You look fine, and – you're naked, aren't you? Please don't walk in front of the fire, there's a good boy. Maybe she's popular enough to not have to haggle or beg for business. You said she was beautiful, right?"

"Gorgeous." Harry was checking his ass out in the full-length mirror, flexing the cheeks. "I have an amazing ass – maybe I should just walk around backwards in chaps or something."

"Harry James, focus." Hermione sighed from the fireplace. "Look. If you feel that strongly, figure out what was off about her and then go back. I doubt she's going to hold a grudge. It's business here, not love."

"Love is a pain in the ass. Did I mention that mine is …"

"Amazing, yes. Honey, it's late, and not all of us are on vacation. Get some sleep, and try again tomorrow, all right? Love you."

"Love you too, and thanks for the …" He walked in front of the fire and Hermione shrieked, "HARRY!" But before he could say anything else, Hermione was gone, and a naked, thoughtful Harry was left alone to ponder.

His pondering was short-lived, however, because a quick scan of the available telly channels led him to some decidedly adult fare and he was soon happily ensconced in bed, soothing the savage breast – and other body parts as well.

He was on vacation, after all.

The next morning found him longing for coffee, pastry, and weed, and not necessarily in that order, so he dressed and left the hotel, finding another shop that appeared to exist merely to cater to his special needs; specifically, his need for Irish coffee, which was a fabulous way to start the first day of the rest of his life.

He spent the greater part of the day exploring other parts of the city, and taking pictures, which he loved doing, and was actually very good at. He preferred Muggle cameras, liked capturing things at a certain moment in time, freezing it.

He took photos of buildings, of landmarks, and most often, of people. People were endlessly fascinating in the range of expressions they showed, and for whatever reason, Harry seemed to be able to capture ones that were perhaps best hidden; Harry didn't mind waiting and waiting till the perfect moment presented itself. It made for some memorable images.

Harry took his dinner at a small café, and after a dessert that was both sinfully chocolate, and handily packed with pot, he returned to the Enge Kirkesteed, still carrying his camera around his neck and a small supply of "special" brownies.

He walked with more purpose this time, looking for a certain window, but when he found it – or the one he was sure had been hers – it was empty, the light turned off. Harry stood in front of the window, feeling very stupid all of a sudden – and truth be told, more than a little forlorn.

"Don't worry, handsome – he'll be back. He's got himself a live one, a French businessman; kinky one, him, but harmless. I say give him half an hour." The whore leaning against her door was an older woman, but still firm, still ripe. She took a long drag off her cigarette and blew smoke at the sky. "I'd be happy to entertain you while you wait."

Harry rubbed his forehead. "That's very kind of you, but I must have the wrong window. I'm looking for a beautiful girl." He paused, then added hastily. "No offense."

"Aren't we all?" chimed in another voice, this from a very young whore, one who looked barely older than thirteen, and probably wasn't. "Too bad all the pretty ones are working girls."

Harry nodded. "Time is money, right?"

She nodded, then looked to the other whore. "He's looking for Darcy, right?"

"Mmmhmmm." The older women stretched out her leg. "Damn, I have a run in my best stockings. Oh well. In a few hours, the men will all be drunk, and won't notice anyway. Makes me wonder why I still bother for them, the sots."

"Darcy? Is that her name?" Harry tried to steer the conversation back to the absent girl.

"His name, yeah." The young girl propped her door open wider and inspected her purple toenails. "He's pretty enough to be a girl, though – prettier than me, dammit. But when you hike up that chemise, the dick kind of gives it all away."

"She's a boy?" Harry wanted to be clear on this point. "Darcy is the one with the long blond hair, the black eyeliner, the lip ring and the legs that stretch to Belgium?"

"That's him. He makes a hell of a girl, though. Acts like one, too, which isn't saying anything good. He's shallow, selfish, greedy and manipulative. Yet he gets all the business he can handle, the bitch." The younger of the whores shrugged. "He makes the rest of us work harder, just to keep up."

Well. This was an unexpected twist. Harry had never made love to a boy, and while he couldn't rule the possibility out, he wasn't sure that a girl who looked that hot but was a boy was fair play. He felt duped. Maybe that was what had felt wrong last night – maybe it was a sense that all was not what it seemed.

He didn't know, but before he could ride further on this train of thought, the light in the window behind him came on and he turned to see Darcy reclining on her daybed – his daybed, rather, looking a bit tired, but lovely as he remembered. Harry swallowed hard, and walked over to the window.

"Goede Avond," he said softly, and the eyes caught his, and held.

"Is it to be Dutch tonight, after all?" There was that husky voice, but it didn't seem particularly masculine. "Aren't you afraid of misspeaking? Perhaps you might ask me if I play the sitar or know how to dance in the Spanish style."

"Do you?" It was an automatic response; Harry knew full well that curiosity can kill both cats and full grown men, but reasoned that having avoided certain death by Unforgivable and traveled through the afterlife, that he was probably safe from this particular danger.

Darcy smiled. "Is it on your list of pleasures to learn those answers?"

The hell of it is, is that Harry wasn't sure they weren't. "Perhaps near the end." He considered a moment, biting his lip as he watched Darcy stretch, inspect her nails and then look over him. The gaze was more calculating than sexy, but she – he – was all business.

"Will you refuse me tonight again?" The head was tilted, and again, the pink tongue worried the ring, and the chemise shifted – it was purple, tonight, a pale shade of lavender and it turned light eyes dark. Black rimmed with black.

"No. I won't refuse you." He took a breath, then stepped closer, and Darcy opened the door, allowing him to step inside, and eyed the camera.

"Are you a photographer by trade?" Up close, the eyes still look bruised, although there is no trace of physical damage. Up close, it is just another illusion – Darcy seems proficient at creating those.

Harry looked down. "Ah, no. I just like to take photos, is all." He looked back up and met Darcy's gaze. "Would you allow me to take some photos of you – just for my own personal collection?"

Darcy smirked. "That's what all the gentlemen say – then I see myself on the internet. But feel free to snap away – I have no secrets."

Harry was tempted to ask if the fact he was a dude who looked like a lady was supposed to be a secret, and then decided to keep quiet and eat a brownie, which he did as he followed Darcy into her room and shut the door behind him.

"Sweet tooth?"

"Hmmm? Oh. Yes. Love the chocolate – energy, you know." Harry hastily shoved the last of the brownie in his mouth – it was small but packed a powerful punch. Mmmm.

He looked around the room, which was decorated in what interior designers would no doubt term "shabby chic," except that he was pretty sure that wasn't the intended result. But he was hardly one to talk, considering his own flat was decorated in early rummage sale, with a healthy dose of church bazaar thrown in.

She – no, he, he had to remember that – sat down and crossed his legs, running a hand through his hair. "So, what do I call you?"

"Oh, uhm, Harry. Just Harry is fine."

"All right, Just Harry." He smiled. "Now, you do know the rules, right? Pay by the hour or the night – an hour is one hundred twenty Euros. A night – four hours – is a flat fee of four hundred Euros. This is straight sex, which does include blowjobs – if I like you, I swallow, and if not, I spit. Get over it."

He looked at his nails, admiring the pearly white polish, then back at Harry. "Kinky shit is extra, and I am never – and I do repeat, never – the sub. I'll talk dirty for free, again, if I like you. You seem like a nice enough bloke, and rather cute, so I'm inclined to be kind. I tell you when we're done, and when I say go, you go, all nice and well-behaved. Understand?"

Harry blinked. "I think so."

"Good." Darcy inspected his toenail polish. "Then, I suppose, the only thing to do is get down to it." He looked up and smiled and Harry raised a brow.

"So the fact that I thought you were a woman and you're not doesn't appear in your disclaimer?"

Now Darcy raised a brow. "Is that a problem? The way I see it, I have a great body, talented mouth and a hole to stick your dick into, so really, what's the difference between me and a female?"

"Boobs?" Harry offered, after considering the question seriously.

"You want boobs, go for one of those cows down the avenue, like the ones you were talking to when I came back out. They're just overrated gobs of flesh. I can offer you so much more, Just Harry." Darcy smiled seductively, then stood up, pushed down the strap of his chemise and ...

"No, whoa, wait!" Harry stepped back hastily. "Pictures first!"

Darcy stopped, then slid the strap back up. "You're an odd boy, but fine, whatever you want. It's your wallet." He looked at Harry. "So, what do you want me to do?"

"Pretend I'm not here and do whatever you normally would. Like put on makeup, or choose an outfit or …"

"Touch myself?" Darcy smiled sweetly as Harry turned pink.

"If that's what you do – I'm not going for pornography here, though. Just be yourself. Be whoever you are when you're not being a, a – lady of the evening. Or lad of the evening, or whatever, all right?"

Darcy sighed heavily. "That is so boring, though – sure you don't want something much more exotic?"

"No." Harry was firm. "No, I just want everyday you."

"Oh, fine then." Darcy turned away, and for the next half hour, he did a very good job of ignoring Harry entirely while he re-painted his toenails, touched up his eyeliner, looked through a magazine, cursed out a pair of new black lace hose and applied a wonderful-smelling body lotion to his legs and shoulders.

Meanwhile, Harry snapped away, soft clicks in the background, shooting an entire roll of film of Darcy alone, fascinated by the way he moved and the expressions that crossed his face when he finally did forget that Harry was there.

Harry was about to stop shooting when a large black cat with green eyes streaked past his legs and jumped on Darcy's lap, rubbing against him and making soft noises. An entirely unguarded smile crossed Darcy's face then, and Harry felt an odd jolt of recognition that was gone as soon as it had appeared.

The cat stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. Darcy laughed. "You won't win a staring contest with him, Just Harry. Onyx is a past master at staring people down. He fancies himself quite a protector, too, so if you prefer your face unscathed, be nice to me."

"I wasn't planning on being anything but nice." Harry set down his camera on a rickety vanity and let the cat sniff his fingers, then rub against them, then allow him to pet him. Darcy looked surprised.

"He never lets anyone touch him – you must be special."

"That's what people say," Harry replied, thinking that the special he was referring to was a mite different then what Darcy probably meant, but whatever.

"So did you get all your pictures? Are you satisfied with the pictorial of my life so that we can go on to have some fun?" He stood, Onyx jumping off his lap, and moved over to Harry, touching his cheek. "I have a feeling you're a brilliant kisser – are you?"

Before Harry could say yea or nay, Darcy's lips were on his, and his arms were around Harry's neck, soft hands stroking his hair, and Harry couldn't do anything but respond in kind.

He closed his eyes as they kissed; the lip ring was exciting, its cool metal rubbing against his lips as the kiss deepened. It was a surprisingly gentle kiss, more so than he would have expected, and the touches were almost affectionate, familiar. Again, Harry was struck by a feeling of – not déjà vu, but something, something …

"You like?" His voice was soft in Harry's ear, and Harry shivered, despite himself.

"Yes," he whispered back, "I like very much."

Darcy moved his mouth down to Harry's jaw, his neck, nipping with sharp teeth, then licking the bitten flesh with a warm tongue; Harry closed his eyes and slid his hand into Darcy's hair, fisting it and tugging till his head tilted back and Harry could look into his eyes.

They were a light, pale gray, and there was no darkness there; despite his life and circumstances, they weren't angry or full of pain. They were calm, accepting.

Darcy smiled at him, and slid his hand down Harry's front, to his belt buckle, undoing it expertly with one hand, the other hand still stroking his hair.

Warm fingers wrapped around Harry's cock and squeezed as his earlobe was bitten and Harry moaned involuntarily until the sound was cut off by a soft kiss before Darcy dropped to his knees, purple silk sliding off his body and puddling on the painted floor. A few quick tugs and Harry's trousers and boxers joined the chemise.

Darcy kept his eyes mostly down as he licked and sucked Harry's cock, reaching around with his free hand to dig his nails into Harry's ass, keeping him still as he worked.

Harry stopped him long enough to walk them two steps back, so the wall would take his weight – his knees were shaking with strain of standing straight – and to be honest, it was arousing as hell to see him, Darcy, on his knees, moving with him.

Propped up, Harry closed his eyes again, stroking Darcy's hair, his other hand pressed against the wall behind him. He was taking an unusually long time to come, he thought, but then again, he'd been a bit rough on himself the night before, so perhaps that was to be expected.

The light changed, a flicker as a lamp near them wavered, and Harry opened his eyes and looked down as Darcy pulled his mouth back to the tip, and licked him delicately, teasing him, his angle exposing his upper body to the light.

The sharp intake of breath could have been either a precursor to coming, or a noise born of shock; in this case, it was both. Harry came with a guttural groan, and slumped against the wall, while Darcy expertly swallowed his seed, then pulled back, licking his lips.

Darcy sat back on his knees and smirked. "Partaking in all the city has to offer, are you? I taste cocoa and hemp."

Harry had to try a couple of times before he could speak, but when he could, he murmured "Yes – cocoa and hemp is one of my favorite ways to get my daily recommended dosage of relaxation."

"Mine too; I bake my own treats, however, so I can be sure of quality ingredients, baking being much more fun than plain old cooking."

He stood up, clad now only in a thin pair of purple silk panties. "That was a nice start, hmm, Just Harry? What shall I do to you next?"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing – that was amazing, truly. You should give lessons."

Darcy looked surprised. "That was all? Are you sure?"

Harry nodded and pulled up his pants, giving him a manufactured smile, the same one he gave to his superiors, the Wizengamot, his dealer, and Ginny when she was in a mood. It was sincerely insincere and had gotten him slapped more than once. Darcy didn't look any more fooled than Gin normally did. Damn women – or men, as the case may be.

He shrugged. "Whatever – I would have given you a deal, but since you're not interested, that will be two hundred forty Euros; you were ten minutes into the second hour, and I bill like a doctor. I bet I do more good and solve more problems than they do, anyway." He held out his hand, waiting.

"I bet you do, too." Harry handed over three hundred Euros.

Darcy looked down. "I don't make change."

"I don't want change."

Their eyes met and the smile Harry gave him now was genuine. "It was more than worth it."

A small smile in return. "Have a pleasant night, then."

"I'll certainly try." Harry felt other eyes on him and turned to see Onyx sitting on a chair and glowering at him, sensing his master's displeasure. He met the cat's eyes until the animal jumped down and stalked away into a closet.

He watched Darcy bite his lip, then nod again. "Goodnight."

Harry nodded and left, taking a deep breath when he was outside, then making his way back to the hotel. It wasn't till he was back in his room that he remembered his camera, still sitting on Darcy's dressing table.

"Well, this is an improvement – now you're actually calling in the morning and not in the middle of the night. And you addressed me by name and said you had a question. AND you have on pants. Good job."

Hermione actually sounded rather chipper, thought Harry, which seemed unfair. She also looked rested and competent, while he no doubt looked like a crazed insomniac with maybe a wee drinking problem. He surreptitiously slid the bottle of rum behind his pillow.

"Yeah, I'm working on my people skills. Look – remember after the War, the Death Eater trials?"

She furrowed a brow. "Of course, and so should you, considering you testified at a bunch of them. Why?"

"The Malfoys." Harry took a bite of brownie, the breakfast of champions. "Lucius and Narcissa – they both went to Azkaban, right?"

"Mmmhmm." Hermione, Harry noted, was also eating her breakfast, but he bet her bran muffin wasn't nearly as potent or tasty as his treat.

"What about Draco? I never went to his trial, or Goyle's or any of that crew. Are they in Azkaban too?"

Hermione's expression changed, became thoughtful, and then she sighed and shook her head. "You'd left England for training by the time this happened, and it probably slipped by you, afterwards, but Draco, along with Greg Goyle and a few others, were part of a Ministry experiment, I guess you'd call it."

Harry's brow immediately furrowed – Ministry "experiments" had abounded after the War, some with disastrous results. In public, and at state events, Shacklebolt was fond of saying that you never heard about all the good results, only the bad. Harry had always been quick to point out that it was because, as the saying went, "When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid."

At that point, he'd usually be hustled away to meet the Premiere of Some Country He'd Never Heard Of, with whom he'd have to converse in awkward sign language for the next half hour.

Payback was indeed a bitch.

"Harry? Are you still there?"

"Yes, sorry." He rubbed his face. "And before you ask, no, I'm not high – yet. So, what was this experiment?"

"Right – the children of Death Eaters, the ones no older than we were, were given a choice. They could either stand trial, risk Azkaban, or they could agree to be "reassigned." Essentially, they were drained of their magic, Obliviated, and relocated to different parts of the world with no knowledge of each other, no memory of what had happened, of what their parts in events were, or of their families. It was the Ministry's attempt at a new start for those who might not have had any choice in their actions."

"No choice? You don't think they had a choice?" Harry's voice was incredulous, and he stopped and took a breath, then another bite of brownie. "You're telling me Draco Malfoy had no choice? He bragged about being a DE, showed people his Mark!"

"Harry, calm down – no, I don't think he had a choice. I don't think he had any control over what happened, given his family's history and ties and you know this, for God's sake!" Now it was her turn to take a breath. "Why are you asking now, Harry?"

He finished the brownie and his coffee, then folded his hands. "You know that whore I told you about? It's Draco. Darcy – that's the name he used – is Draco."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You're sure?"

"He still has the scar, the Sectumsempra scar. I saw it when his teddy slid off, and the light flickered over his chest; it's unmistakable."

"Why was his teddy falling … oh? Oh!" She blushed and Harry almost laughed.

"We didn't have sex, he just, uhm, pleasured me orally. And damn, he was good, too. Amazing, in fact; you should see his face when he does this little thing with his tongue that ..."

"Oh God, don't tell me. Really. Don't." She paused. "So what are you gonna do?"

"Do? Nothing: I was just surprised, is all, you know? That it was him, and he didn't recognize me, or string me along if he did. I looked in his eyes, Hermione, and there was nothing there but light, you know? No darkness, no pain. Draco Malfoy, of all people, has no darkness. It just - it shocked me, is all."

"Are you glad for him, or angry?" Hermione knew him well.

Harry sighed "Maybe a little of both? We all deserve a second chance, I guess, and although this isn't a life I think he would have chosen, he seems content enough." Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "I took pictures," he added. "Pictures of her, of him, to find out why I was off, to figure out why I felt something I couldn't explain. Now I know. I know where I saw that smile, all those years ago. The one time I ever saw a real smile from him, that day in the robe shop."

Harry's voice had dropped so low that Hermione had to strain to hear it.

"In both of his lives, I rejected him. In our first year, I wouldn't take his hand and that made him, at least partly, what he was. What he felt he had to become. And now, again, I walked away from him. What will it do to him now?"

Hermione bit her lip and gestured to him. "Come over here."

Harry moved to the hearth and took her hand, feeling her squeeze it from her office in London.

"Harry, love, Draco's path was set from the moment he was born to those hideous parents of his. You taking his hand, like this, or not, didn't make him what he was. Similarly, saying no that first night is not going to set his life down a path to destruction. Honey, you may be the Boy Who Lived, but you're not the Almighty. Draco got a second chance, and now it's all up to him. In his life, Harry Potter doesn't exist."

Harry knew she was right and he was over-thinking this, making more of it, assuaging some leftover guilt with his theory. But knowing something, as he was well aware, didn't always help.

He squeezed her hand again and let go. "Okay. You're right, and I'm overreacting, as usual. Thanks for being the voice of reason."

Hermione smiled. "It's been my job for a long time, love. Now, please, enjoy the rest of your vacation, okay?"

Harry promised he would and she disappeared in a huge burst of blue flame, the showoff.

He finished his bottle of rum, and crawled into bed, sleeping until the streetlights outside his un-shuttered windows woke him. He sat up, ran a hand through his hair and tried to figure out what exactly he needed. It took him a moment or two, but then he knew.

His camera.

"Back again? You are an ardent one, aren't you?"

The old whore had apparently decided that ripped stockings were not deal-breaker, as she had the same pair on as the night before. In fact, the entire outfit was the same, and sniffing her, Harry suspected that she'd not moved from this spot since their conversation yesterday.

"I guess so. Is she – I mean he – with a customer?"

"Mmmmm – he caught himself a diplomat from Johannesburg, this time, quite a lovely man. I wouldn't have minded a crack at him, myself." She inspected her nails and sighed, presumably over lost opportunities.

Harry bit his lip and resigned himself to waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. That diplomat must have unreal staying power, the bastard.

When the light finally came back on, Harry had dozed off on the pavement in front of her window, and the older whore had threatened two muggers and a pickpocket with an STD that would cause their cock to rot off if they touched him; she had grown rather fond of Harry.

Harry woke and blinked, and looked up to see Darcy standing over him with his camera in hand.

"Did you forget something?"

"I guess so." Harry stood up and brushed himself off, then took the camera from him with a small smile, untangling the strap and hanging it back around his neck.

Darcy was in a white lace chemise this time, his hair loose, makeup minimal, except for the black liner. "I wondered if you'd come back for it," he said, leaning against his door. "You seemed so intent on capturing something with it, some essence … a memory, maybe. Because of course, that's all I'll be to you."

He gave Harry a small smile. "When you go back to whatever world you live in the rest of the time, that is."

Harry looked at Darcy for a long moment, again searching the eyes, which were as untroubled as before. "You'll be a beautiful memory, though."

"Aren't those the best kind?"

Harry nodded. "They are." He bit his lip and then touched his face gently. "You're happy in this life, aren't you?"

Darcy let out a short laugh. "Is anyone truly happy in their life?"

"I think so. I think you can be. I think you are." He didn't add that he needed him to be happy – he could never, would never, explain.

He wouldn't touch Draco's life again.

Second chances.

Darcy tilted his head. "I believe I am, Just Harry. I have all I need, more than, actually. I have a roof over my head, I pick and choose my playmates, and someday, if I choose, I'll turn out this light and walk away with the best of the lot. And I will have my memories too."

He touched the hand still cupping his cheek. "You'll be one of them, and yes, the best kind."

"Will I?" Harry needed to be sure.

"Yes." Darcy turned his head to brush a soft kiss over Harry's palm before moving his hand away. "A lovely memory for a lovely man."

She smiled at him and turned away, Onyx yowling as he was stepped over; Harry locked eyes with the cat once more, but this time, it was him that turned away, walking down the street. He would never walk the Enge Kirkesteed again, but it would remain, of course, a lovely memory.

Perhaps he and Draco both, finally, deserved some of those.